


Airs from Heaven or Blasts from Hell

by seanchaidh



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Missing Scene, Star Trek Beyond Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-11
Updated: 2016-08-11
Packaged: 2018-08-08 01:18:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7737469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seanchaidh/pseuds/seanchaidh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's a doctor, damn it.  Not a rescue party or an action hero.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Airs from Heaven or Blasts from Hell

What Leonard McCoy wanted more than anything in the universe was his own sickbay with all of the accompanying modern medical miracles. The latest equipment, in a bright, spacious, and, he couldn't emphasis this enough, sanitary space. He missed it so much, and he hated to think of it lying in ruins somewhere on Altamid's surface. He didn't even know the fate of his staff, how many of them were shot down by Krall's soldiers and how many were now his captives. He had to push past those worries and focus on the current situation.

And that meant working with ancient instruments to save Spock's life.

He wasn't even joking. These instruments were over a hundred years old, with a patina that came from exposure to an alien atmosphere for most of that time. These were the kinds of tools that belonged in a museum, not in Leonard's hands, but it was also a hell of a lot better than improvising something better from the wreckage of an alien ship.

He was going to save Spock's life, goddamnit.

His nerves were shot, but his hands were steady as he worked on sealing the worst of the damage. Leonard hadn't had the opportunity to work on a live Vulcan before, because thankfully before this, Spock had had a good streak of luck – especially compared to Jim's less than stellar record when it came to away missions. But Leonard was nothing if not a good student. While Jim might've been feeling the strain of almost three years in space, Leonard had the distraction of the latest research and protocols to keep him occupied for the last two years.

There was always something new to learn, and now he was going to use that knowledge to fix the pointy-eared bastard. Maybe as thanks, they'd never have to finish that awkward conversational thread Spock had managed to lob his way in the tense moment before their rescue.

(Because, seriously, it wasn't as though he didn't like Spock. That had come gradually. It was just that Leonard had serious problems connecting to people in a constructive way. Apparently. According to a therapist. Jim could attest.)

The protoplaser was doing its job, and both a quick scan and a glance at Spock's more even complexion told him that the worse of the internal injury was healed. He would've preferred for Spock to have a few more hours to rest, not to mentioned a transfusion or two, but neither of those were about to happen. The best he could ask for was for Spock not to spring another leak. God willing.

“There,” Leonard said, more for Spock's benefit. He could just see a sliver of drowsy-looking brown peering through his lashes. He tugged Spock's ruined shirt down to give him a semblance of privacy. “That should do it. Don't be ruining my handiwork again, got it?”

Spock opened his eyes for a half moment. “Thank you, Doctor.”

“Don't mention it,” Leonard told him. “Now we probably don't have enough time for you to go into a healing trance --“ not like last night in the alien house, when Leonard sat with wet feet next to him and watched his chest to make sure he kept breathing -- “but I'll make sure the rest of these castaways keep things down to a dull roar for a while.”

From the lack of response, it was pretty clear Spock was already asleep. Whatever.

Rolling his eyes to hide his relief, Leonard took the opportunity to scan the rest of the crew with the aged tricorder. They were all bruised, but given what had happened to the Enterprise, not to mention their adventures afterward, that was to be expected. Chekov was a little singed around the edges, and Scotty had abrasions on his hands that would heal well enough on their own. Leonard could only guess at Jaylah's vitals, but from her insistence that “I am fine, Doctor Bones,” he would leave well enough alone.

Jim, on the other hand, was bruised and shaken, and his eyes were the fiercest, angriest shade of blue that Leonard had ever seen. He'd seen Jim Kirk through a lot in their years together, but this was new. In just a few hours, his ship was gone, the surviving crew prisoners in an unknown location, and the motivation behind everything was unclear, if they'd even find out.

But then, Jim smiled at him.  The old, familiar expression that said they'd defy the odds and survive; somehow.  For Leonard, that was exactly what he needed to see.

"Scotty, see if you can scare up some provisions," Jim said, and then reached over to pluck the tricorder from Leonard's hands.  "In the meantime, it's your turn, Bones."

"I can scan myself," Leonard protested, but handed over the device anyway.

"Indulge me."  Jim scanned him with the same pattern Leonard always used – head to foot, and back up again to be thorough – and then handed the device back after a quick glance at the screen. “I think that says you're okay, but that's going to make one hell of a bruise.”

Leonard blinked, and then remembered the now scabbed-over cut on his forehead. It had bled like a sonofabitch when they crashed, but he'd forgotten about it in the focus over Spock's condition. Now, he could feel its sting as a reminder, and he supposed that in all the fuss he was lucky it hadn't reopened to bleed into his eyes.

He reached into the pile of tools, rummaging again until he found what had to be a first-generation dermal regenerator. After flicking it on to test if it still functioned, he handed it to Jim. “Just wave it over the wound a couple of times.”

With hands steadier than Leonard's, Jim followed the instructions with his face focused on the task. A momentary itch above his eye told him the worst was healing over, and then Jim was looking for something.

“Your face looks worse than mine,” Jim said, a fond tone in his voice. “That's saying a lot.”

“Your face is used to it,” Leonard retorted. “What the hell are you looking for?”

“It can't be hygienic,” Jim said, and pulled out a ragged package that ended up being an ancient moistened cloth in a tin foil wrapper. He ripped it open with his teeth, and pulled it out. “I'm just going to clean your face.”

“Fine.” He tried to sound resigned, but he was really more pleased than anything else. He tilted his face, submitting to Jim's ministrations, and to be honest, it felt nice having the dried blood wiped away. “You wanna know what really isn't hygienic? Try having wet feet on an alien planet.”

“How did you get your feet wet?” Jim asked, his lips twisting into a smile he was trying to hide.

“I crashed our ship into a river,” Leonard admitted. “Maybe it was more than a stream, but whatever, I ended up hiking up rocks and god knows what else with a wounded Vulcan slung across my shoulders, and my feet wet.”

Scotty perked up from across the room. “Would it help if I told you there were extra socks over here?”

Clean socks, even a hundred years old, were still clean socks. “I'll take them.”

“That's the spirit,” Jim said, moving away to avoid being smacked in the head by the small bundle after Scotty tossed them over. “How are those rations coming?”

“We have emergency rations,” Chekov said from where he was sorting through one of Jaylah's many piles. “I would not examine the expiry date too closely, however.”

“Why, you think they're from the same batch we had to eat at the Academy?” Leonard groused.

“Aye, but if I can get the synthesizer working,” Scotty said, “I might convince it to get us a strong cup of tea.”

“Or coffee?” Leonard asked, suddenly wanting one more than he cared to admit.

“That, too.”

“Angels and ministers of grace defend us,” Leonard said, sighing as he removed his boots.

“You were saying about Shakespeare?” Jim asked, eyebrows raised but amused.

Leonard let that go, because why should Vulcans always get the last word? Besides, with dry socks, hot drinks, and the company of friends, maybe overcoming impossible odds wouldn't seem so impossible.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Sternel for the encouragement, Canistakahari for the initial readthrough, and to Lauriegilbert for the beta. :)
> 
> And after a three year dry spell, I'm back!
> 
> The title comes from Hamlet, Act 1.


End file.
